Erotic provocateur, racially-influenced humanist, relentless champion for the oppressed, and facilitator for social change, Scottie Lowe is the brain child, creative genius and the blood, sweat, and tears behind AfroerotiK. Intended to be part academic, part educational, and part sensual, she, yes SHE gave birth to the website to provide people of African descent a place to escape the narrow-mined, stereotypical, limiting and oft-times degrading beliefs that abound about our sexuality. No, not all Black men are driven by lust by white flesh or to create babies and walk away. No, not all Black women are promiscuous welfare queens. And as hard as it may be to believe, no, not all gay Black men are feminine, down low, or HIV positive. Scottie is putting everything on the table to discuss, debate, and dismantle stereotypes in a healthy exchange of ideas. She hopes to provide a more holistic, informed, and enlightened discussion of Black sexuality and dreams of helping couples be more open, honest, and adventurous in their relationships.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

To Be a Black Feminist

I recently read a deluded and sad “Letter to a Black Feminist” by a gentleman who blamed feminists for . . . well, basically, anything and everything he could think of. The fact that he didn’t even correctly identify what a feminist was or our real agendas didn’t seem to bother the numerous people who responded and told him how insightful and well thought out is misguided ramblings were. I am a feminist. I am an unapologetic Black feminist. I’m saddened by the lies, mistruths, and ignorance being perpetuated in my name and feel it’s my responsibility to share the truth for anyone who may be so inclined to learn and grow.

Here’s the Feminist Primer as simply as it can be explained.

Feminists work to dismantle the social, sexual, political, and economic disparity between the genders.

Feminists seek equality. Equality doesn’t mean we think we are as physically strong as men; it means we want our different strengths and abilities to have the same weight as men’s strengths and abilities have.

Feminists don’t want to be superior to men; we are not looking to replace patriarchy with matriarchy.

Feminists don’t want to emasculate men (although the concepts of masculinity and femininity are flawed, that’s besides the point). We have no agendas to make men more feminine but simply understand that there is a certain harmony and peace when masculine and feminine energies are in balance.

Feminists don’t seek to form matrilineal societies where women rule and have multiple spouses.

Feminists want to be seen as human beings, not objects, not submissives, not broken ribs or whatever fairy tales Black men want to quote to justify their insecurity with the concept that man and women should hold no power over each other.

Feminists aren’t lesbians, although we can be, but our sexual orientation has nothing whatsoever to do with our desire to fight the systems that keep women as second-class citizens.

Feminists don’t hate men although we certainly have a right to hate their privilege.

Feminists aren’t “against the family,” as so many Black men want to imply, we just don’t want the family to be based on a patriarchal model where men have the final say just because they have a Y chromosome.

Feminists simply take a stand against the oppression and tyranny of women under the false assumption of men being somehow inherently superior.

Feminists don’t want to be defined by how attractive we are to men but by our intellect, skills, talents, abilities, and our humanity.

Black men are so terrified of being equal to women that they raise these absurd and paranoid rants against feminists in order to deflect from their own emotional immaturity. Black men are hysterical. They yell and scream about how they want an end to the fallacy of white male supremacy but they don’t want anything to do with the end of male supremacy, ESPECIALLY if it means they might lose their historically unearned place as leader, ruler, and so-called king. As long as Black men feel they have a right to oppress, subjugate, or dominate women because some white man wrote a book that said that God deemed that anyone with a penis has special privileges to view women as inferior, then black men will be forever handicapped by their own ignorance and arrogance. Emasculating or hating men has NEVER been the agenda of feminists, that's nothing but bullshit rhetoric from immature and insecure men who want to keep women silenced and maintain their privilege of oppression. The very men who so vehemently hate feminists, who make us out to be evil estrogen wielding castrators, are the very men who are raping women, who are committing domestic violence, who are complacent when they see women being treated like whores and objects. Misogyny is a sickness within the Black community; it is a rampant disease that threatens our very existence. Until Black men can boldly declare that they are feminists, activists who fight for the equality of women, meaning they are willing to divest themselves of their unearned penal privilege and address how dysfunctional our society is in terms of gender, they will forever be emotionally handicapped oppressors.

Black women aren’t much better. We have no clue what a feminist is other than what we hear Black men yell and scream, we are so conditioned to try to conform to Black men’s whims, fantasies, and irrational demands, that we never question anything they tell us and we go along with what they say. Black women can more easily define what a touchback in football is rather than correctly define the term feminist, even though one is meant to make them appear more attractive to men and the other benefits their status and standing as a woman in society. Of those who have a tiny clue what the word means, they inevitably say, “White women have commandeered the feminist movement for their own agenda so I consider myself a womanist.” Ask a Black woman, “What’s the difference between a feminist and a womanist?” “Well, a womanist is more concerned with Black issues.” Does that mean that we need to come up with a different name for Democrat since I’m more concerned with Black issues than white Democrats? “Well, a womanist is more concerned with the family.” Well, white women get married more than Black women so this Black womanist movement isn’t being particularly effective, is it? You lessen your position of power if you refuse to face Black men head on with their misogyny and you attempt to side step them by using a more neutral term that they don't object to. You cannot be a warrior in the struggle if you are starting your crusade from a place of concession. If you refer to yourself as a womanist, you’ve already said to the world, “I don’t want to be equal to men because I don’t want them mad at me for being too radical.” Womanism is not the lite version of feminism, it's not the Black version of feminism, it's the patriarchal conformation to Black men's insecurities.

If there was ever a platform upon which we could stand and unite, all men and women, it is the feminist one which states that we will be seen as human beings, no more, no less, that women serve a greater role in the world than doing housework and being receptacles for sperm to satisfy men’s lust. We are individuals with equal strengths to bring to the table as men. They are not the same strengths, but they are equal nonetheless. Just as left is not better than right, hot is not better than cold, up is not better than down, white is not better than black, let us all agree the man is not better than woman.

Scottie Lowe

Saturday, September 05, 2009

On my Mind

Phone Bone

I've come to accept that I might not ever share my bed with a true partner. A true partner is someone who appreciates me, accepts me, someone who loves me for all that I am. My bed might only ever provide temporary refuge for men who feel a connection but fear the connection. It's very possible my lovers will be men who leave me feeling insecure and ugly, questioning my value and worth as a woman, a lover, and a partner.

But I am a woman with needs and desires that go unfulfilled for months and even years at a time. I long to feel desired and loved just like any other human being. I don't have casual sex; I can't go out to the club on a Friday night and meet someone I'm attracted to. I've learned the hard way that I can't go on a dating site and find someone with whom I share chemistry and connection.

I find comfort, safety, and release occasionally in phone sex. In the familiarity of my own bed, practicing the safest possible sex, thanks to AT&T, I can experience the intimacy, love and connection I desire. The men need not be perfect. I can pretend there in the dark that he is my ideal lover. His voice can caress me, his words can satisfy my hungers. I can touch myself and pretend that my dream lover tenderly, sweetly, gently delivers each and every stroke.

Phone sex is my only outlet. It's the only form of sex I can seem to have and not have crippling guilt and remorse afterwards. The longer I'm alone the more I realize how essential physical connection is. Every time I have sex with someone undeserving of my body and my love, I feel like I have to punish myself. I feel like I need to revirginize myself and go without sex for painfully long periods of time in order to purge myself of my "sin" of weakness. It's my weakness to my urges that I know are human and normal and natural that haunt me. With phone sex, I have no such angst, that disappointment in myself. My phone lovers aren't real so I can let down my hair and be primal and feral and never feel an ounce of remorse. I feel lonely afterwards, that's for sure, but FAR less than I do when I have sex with and I know that when he leaves my bed, he may not return.

My phone lovers, too, are few and far between. To be honest, most men are not great at making love to a woman's mind so it stands to reason that the skills needed to seduce a woman over the phone are underdeveloped as well. I don't want to be called a bitch; I don't want to hear fake and contrived scenarios. I just want a man to tell me how much he desires me, my body, my personal brand of pleasure. I want to experience his private pleasure with his words and sounds. I want to dance to images in my head sung to a poetic sonata of sensual bliss. I want to cum together and cry out in the night and feel that bond.

Ideally, I would be able to find a man who wants me and who is a great communicator and we could supplement our amazing sex life with occasional phone sex to keep things spicy. Minus that, I will have to find satisfaction in cellular love.

Blowing his Mind

The beauty of our relationship is the perfect balance we've achieved. He cooks, I clean. He can invite the boys over to play Madden football and never hear a peep out of me. I can host my book club every month without any hassle. He'll even make us a fabulous lunch to boot. We work together, play together, pray together, and our sex life is out of this world.

We were sitting back, watching TV like any ordinary evening and I decided that I wanted to step things up a notch. "Sweetie, would you like another glass of wine," I asked, knowing full well that it was something else entirely I had in mind to drink. He kissed me on my neck and said, "Thanks babe," as I wiggled out of his arms and headed for the kitchen. I took a little detour and headed for the bedroom for a change of wardrobe. When I came back, I stood directly in front of the TV with a simple, elegant red silk nightie and matching heels.

He reached for the remote and clicked the TV off, leaving us bathed in the light of a single white candle. I took his strong hand in mine and pulled him to me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and we kissed as he filled his hands with the fullness of my ass. I kissed my way down his neck and across his shoulders. For a brief moment, he tried to head us toward the bedroom but I would have no such thing. I stopped him right there and knelt in front of him.

Kneeling before him, I pulled the string to his sweats and let them fall to the floor. He stepped out of them and kicked them to the side. His dick was already starting to get engorged and throb. Softly, gently, I took it in my hands and brought the head to my mouth. I felt his hands caress my head and shoulders as I surveyed my prize. Teasingly, I let my tongue tenderly touch the slit, sending shivers down his spine. I rolled his balls around in my fingers and began to explore his growing erection further with my tongue.

From base to head, I licked. I used my mouth to explore every millimeter of his thickening tool until he was as hard as a rock and ready for more. When I placed the head in my mouth, I heard him let out a gentle moan. My objective was for him to let out quite a bit more than a moan so I continued to pleasure him with my mouth and tongue. I slid my soft, full lips down his shaft and back again, looking up at him with a wink. I could feel his knees buckle just a bit as I did it once more, this time, just a bit harder. I wanted to let him know exactly who was in control.

His precum was leaking and he kept saying, "Oh shit, don't stop, that feels so good" so I knew he was ready for everything I had to give. I took his dick in my mouth and swallowed him whole, the head of his dick deep in my throat. I grabbed his ass just as he tried to push me away. He never wants to cum before me so his instinct is always to make me stop before he nuts. Grabbing the base of his thickness, I looked up at him and I said, "Cum in my mouth."
I really shouldn't have been so cruel because I know all his triggers and every time I he would get close to eruption, I would stop. I sucked his dick, licked it, I swallowed it and begged for more. The room filled with his chanting and moaning and the sounds of my sloppy, wet blowjob. I lowered the straps of my lingerie and he filled his hands with my full breasts, kneading them and softly pinching my hardened nipples. I moaned around his dick and slid my finger between my moist folds of my pussy to give him a little taste. For a brief moment, he sucked my finger like I was sucking his dick.

With my finger wet, I spread his legs and worked the tip of my finger in his asshole. I knew it wouldn't be long so I used every trick in the book I had. I licked, I sucked, I licked some more. "Come on baby, give it to me. Shoot your hot cum in my mouth. Mmmm, let me taste it. Come on baby, fuck my mouth." I deep throated his dick and pushed against his spot and he exploded in my mouth, falling back on the sofa out of pure exhaustion, whimpering like a baby, satisfied like a man.

Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK